


Veins of the North

by Talonticus



Series: In Winter's Grasp [1]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Drama, Gen, Pre-Wotlk, Tragedy, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2019-06-27 11:46:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15684798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talonticus/pseuds/Talonticus
Summary: "Who do you serve, flake?""The Lich King. The heart of Northrend. The master of this world.""Excellent. I perceive a thrill, a destructive shard in your spirit. You will do for this project. Rise, my minion."





	Veins of the North

**Author's Note:**

> _Hello, I'm Claire Talon._   
>  _I wasn't gonna release this story until like...much later, but I got bored, so here you go - the background story for my main DK, the one that later becomes Deathlord._   
>  _It's very much tied to the Unbound Bulwark universe. In a way, I suppose it's a taste of future content, at the time of posting._   
>  _I have a profile for her on[this blog page](https://creativebankruptcies.blogspot.com/2018/12/wow-characters.html), under the "Secondary characters" section._

_Sorrow is a tale told in six shades, a plunge into the crevices of despair. Listen and cry unmourned._  


* * *

  
The forsaken lands of northern shores, of forgotten hearths, of unbridled death. Icecrown, the cold heart of Northrend. Its air howls with an everlasting torrent of melancholy, never absorbed or adhered to. Who would hear it? The fallen and the exiled, for who life is so fleeting in this wasteland anyhow?

In a defiled and barren field lies a sea of flesh, metal, cloth and frozen blood. At a glance, it may seem like a camp filled with slumbering people, but it is a grievous mistake to believe that they are asleep. Their true nature is that of corpses, of victims and bodies that have been accumulated during the campaign of necromantic depravity which swept across the lands on the eastern continent months ago.

While most are still and quiet, there is one single entity who walks among them, unhindered and seemingly untouched by the macabre sight before him. His body is adorned and protected with the prime materials that this contemptible realm has to offer, while the helmet which rests on his head resemble the contours of a crown. Each of his heavy steps imprints a small mark into the ground, and rather than feel fear or the desire to shed tears, he thrives. This is his domain, his kingdom. It quakes when he commands it to; it bleeds because he wills it.

He wanders among these carcasses and fallen nobodies, not to revel in the unadulterated desolation or the scent of his triumph – though these aspects are sweet benefits - but to hunt for a distinct source. He attempts to detect a specific trait which will serve his purposes. Some may urge him to gather the appropriate evaluating contraptions or to let some of his subordinates perform such a menial task for him, but they lack vision. It is not so much a science, as a gut feeling.

Suddenly, he traces it, the olfactory cues that denotes his prize. He turns around, walks closer to this seed and ends up in front of a pile of relatively well-preserved quel’dorei, ones that were thrown onto the meat wagons by his servants after their decimation of Quel’Thalas.  
Admittedly, a great deal of these have previously been used over the course of the campaign that ravaged the idyllic elven lands, but the nifty part with being the most powerful necromancer in all of Azeroth is that corpses can always be recycled.

Bending his position and lowering his hands, he grabs one or two of the more meaningless bodies to toss aside, flinging them out of his path. He knows they are not the correct entities, what he requires. Finally, he comes upon a particular elf, a woman, dressed in the telltale vestments of the Farstriders, with the mix of leather, mail and a long concealing cloak - the stout and steadfast defenders of the woods, ever observing and ready to let their arrows fly. Sadly, that did not save them from the undead horde’s onslaught.

The woman would’ve been beautiful once, albeit in the stern and frigid fashion. Now, her skin is a deathly pale hue, cracked in places. She has a headband attached above, in order to keep the long and flowing auburn brown hair in check. This latter facet has mostly been preserved.  
She is unarmed and motionless, though he can still unveil the signs of her death, the breaches in her armor, mainly at her abdomen. She was impaled at some point or another, that much is evident.

Reaching down, he snakes his thick fingers over her neck and locks them around it with a steady grip. As easy as he would a discarded branch, he hoists her body into the air, her limbs dangling listlessly below, bereft of existence, like an empty light. From this angle, she genuinely looks pitiful, an inconsequential sight, no more than dead weight to him. But this is about to change.

Nothing occurs for several moments and though some would probably be dreadfully harmed by the clenching of his fingers, there is no feelings, no fire, no touch left within her with which to sear. He aims to rectify that.  
Gathering power inside of him, channeling the corrupting pools from the wellspring in his core, it slowly surges to his hands, which he instills into her, compiling a speck of life, one that stokes a cold flame in her essence.

The unresponsive corpse suddenly gasps, as its eyes erupt like two blinking stars. Compared to the old serene blue gaze, similar to the surface of Lake Elrendar, these new ones are a dirty, rotten, lifeless blue.  
Pain pervades her entire body, through and through, but not because of his hold or the immensely uncomfortable position. It is like an innate streak of agony in her soul, a raw awakening, which wails. This is wrong, perverse, and a portion of her knows this.

“Who do you serve, flake?”, he asks. His deep voice echoes, as if it were multiple people articulating in unison, integrated with an ancient horror that is nigh indescribable, an eldritch paradox.

Before she manages to force words out of the collapsed tunnel of her throat, another’s words address her, virtually pleading. She doesn’t know who or from where it originates, nor what it desires, for she barely understands herself, but the tune is only for her.  
_“King Anasterian, General Windrunner, the warmth of Eversong, the children of uncontested honor”_ , it whispers. But she cannot heed the words.

Her own response is wholly based on instinct, practically reflexive.  
“The Lich King. The heart of Northrend. The master of this world”, she states huskily. Is it she or the King who provides them?

Either way, he unceremoniously drops her body, letting it tumble to the ground and land in an awkward pose on top of a pile of her dead peers. He expects her to move on her own now.  
“Excellent. I perceive a thrill, a destructive shard in your spirit. You will do for this project. Rise, my minion. Much is left to accomplish, and we must not tarry.”

The unsourced voice prods her mind again, lamenting in character.  
_“Sacrifice.”_  


* * *

  
An unknown amount of time passes, a section of her new reality she can scarcely distinguish. Her life now is nothing but a blur in his service.  
She makes an appearance in the dim and reinforced hallways of the Citadel, too large for these to have been crafted in the honor of the shorter races. Nonetheless, no one can contest its value, as the crown jewel of this undead Kingdom.

She has been bequeathed a new set of gear, fortified with the chill of Northrend, nearly burnt into her numb skin. Plates, painted in pale crimson, heavier than what she used to don in life, inscribed with symbols of skulls. For some reason, the weight does not impede her. She has moved past the constrains and fallacies of such outdated platforms.

She meets with her master on a balcony, overlooking his territory, his demesne. His back is turned to her, the tattered black cloak which obscures his frame stirs in the glacier’s wind.  
“What is your name, minion?”, he asks, without a determinable cause.

It startles her a little. She doesn’t cower to his voice, no matter how much obedience it evokes in her core, the tremor it develops throughout her body. The question itself eludes and confounds her.  
“My…name?”  
The gleaming of her eyes dart back and forth as she scours her interior, but if there ever was a solution, she is not entitled to it.  
“I…I don’t remember.”

Suddenly, the King turns on his heel towards her and lifts one of his heavy gauntlets. Without even touching her, he sends her reeling, a mental torture conjured in her psyche.  
“Search your thoughts, your innermost dreams. You will find it.”

Is this supposed to assist her? She clutches her head, digging her fingers into the top of her skull. The pain is unbearable, and she shrieks, slowly approaching the limits of her resistance, where she will have to beg him to stop. The unknown voice rematerializes quietly in this chaos.  
_“Forced to relive, to know life.”_

Everything comes to an abrupt halt, as she finally spies the vestiges of a few words, far down the depths.  
“Trienza”, she breathes out in relief. “Ranger-Captain Trienza Sah’nir of the Farstriders. Instructor of Quel’Thalas’ forces.”

He ponders this response and nods in appreciation.  
“Trienza. Yes, that is adequate. But you will no longer answer to Sah’nir. It is a trivial leftover which will not serve you, nor me.” He points at her poignantly.  
“I name you Trienza Shadespire. Learn it, embed it into the marrow of your bones.”

Vigor returns to her legs and she straightens her posture as the suffering subsides. She discovers…purpose.  
“Shadespire.” She dips her head in a respectful bow. “As you decree, my King.”

Another few heartbroken words from the internal spirit are unleashed.  
_“False hope.”_  


* * *

  
One day, as chilly as ever, the Lich King invites his latest elevated devotee out into the icy wastes. No explanation was afforded her, nor was it necessary. He ordered her to follow and as nothing more than a pawn, a slave, she showed the anticipated deference.  
As they stop at last, above a hardened patch of crystallized water, he produces an item from his gear – another sword in his grasp. It is smaller and carry far less impressive properties than Frostmourne, but it still substantial. The hilt has layers of thickly woven thorium, while the blade oozes with the unruly atmosphere of saronite. The flat ends are ablaze with blue runes.

He plants the runeblade hard in the ground, digging the keenly sharp tip into the solid substance without issue.  
“Take it. Pluck it from ice. Make it yours.”

She doesn’t know his intentions, nor the meaning of this exercise, but it isn’t for her to question his wishes. She is compliant, no matter what. That is her place.  
As she seizes the hilt and rips it out, she notes how energy from the weapon courses into her, how something affixes itself to her very soul. If being reanimated was the most profound event she has ever experienced, this is now number two on the list.

In a move that vaguely staggers the elf, the King steps up to her and squeezes her arm, the penetrative brilliance of his eyes boring into her.  
“You and this blade are now one entity, one mind. Embrace the unmatched strength and immeasurable ferocity that it imbues you with. This weapon has a title – reveal it to me.”

As he lets go, Trienza is somewhat out of breath, despite the fact that it’s supposed to be impossible. She is nothing but a moving carcass, which does not necessitate respiratory systems. He can be intense for anyone to stand next to.  
Nevertheless, she homes in on the sword instead, probing the dimensions and the breadth of her soul, the force which trickles its way across every inch of her awareness.

She swings the hungry edge back and forth, striking the ice with impeccable precision. The blade seems to bear a melody upon each pivot, a dirge.  
From these indistinguishable lyrics, an apparition manifests before her. She presumes that it’s a spirit of some kind, a woman, a quel’dorei. Trienza thinks she’s beautiful, above measure, but in a…recognizable way. She yearns to hold this lady in her arms, run her fingers through the short red hair. As the wraith faces her, tears stream down its cheeks, as it cries.

Eventually, Trienza raises her weapon and holds it up, allowing the faded sun to glisten on the surface, as though it was made of crystals.  
“Viri’valheen”, she announces and then shifts to face her master. “Sorrow’s Desire.”

The grief-stricken voice emerges.  
_“Merged tool.”_  


* * *

  
After a period of practicing, a time where she puts evidence behind his faith in her, she is called to the lower chambers of his castle. They enter this lair together, where he reveals a whole collection of moving bodies that have been relocated. These people are from a variety of races, though predominantly humans, quel’dorei and dwarves. The massacred masses, the spoils of the Scourge’s conquest.

“These chunks of flesh are insufficient”, he tells her, “nothing but wretched insects. They must be molded into shape, purified through frost and decay, to fulfill their potential. You will ensure their training is rigorous and formidable, Shadespire, so that they may one day rise as masterful, indomitable strongholds of my dominion. It is why I grant you the title of Head Instructor of the Citadel.”

While she listens to his commands, Trienza’s gaze searches the gathered individuals, all of those that are to become her future students, though it isn’t as simplistic as basic combat training.  
Out of nowhere, her eyes grow foggy and she gains an image, a familiar parallel, a likeness which she has beheld in the past. She spots young, nervous and vibrant men and women on green fields, awaiting the stringent inspection which is sure to follow.  
Shifting forward, in lieu of the imposing back of her ruler, she perceives the vision of a woman in her own height, with wavy blonde hair and a resplendent, tenacious bow across one shoulder, whose name currently escapes her.

She is swiftly brought to reality again, by the King’s impatient tone.  
“Are you paying attention, Shadespire?”

Trienza emits a miniscule gasp as she regains her focus, confusedly glancing around her vicinity, for being back in Icecrown. Recomposing her poise, she bows her head.  
“It shall be done, my King.”

Luckily, he doesn’t grill her.  
“Good. Do not hesitate to inflict whatever damage is worthwhile. Shed all redundant fabrics of their old selves. In the end, they will be nothing but subservient, untainted disciples. Do you understand?”

“Unquestionably. I will polish their sordid hides, Your Highness. When you next gaze upon them, you will see only the reflection of your own majesty.”

“As it should be.”

This time, the inward wisp practically sobs.  
_“Brought to agonize.”_  


* * *

  
For weeks, maybe months, perhaps much more, Trienza drills various ‘recruits’, or conscripts, bodies that need better fathom and comprehend their new fates. It’s not so much an educational process as weeding out the inept and feckless, the ones that by Scourge standards are impure or merely too weak to be of use to the Lich King. It’s an arduous and thoroughly harrowing endeavor.

Currently, she’s whipping some of them into shape, a few that are lagging behind the rest. She’s putting them through a set of extra exercises, a final trial. If they fail, they will end as fodder for the next batch.  
Facing her is another elven woman, one of those that their King recently decided to resuscitate, as it were. She was more rotten and cracked than Trienza, but has since been sewn together.

It does not go well for this poor woman, as the Head Instructor tests her necromantic skills and proficiencies with the blade in concert. She is not fast nor strong enough.  
After a time, Trienza tires of the dull display. She disarms the conscript, punches her in the abdomen and drives a shoulder into her chest to violently knock her back so that she plummets to the floor, onto the metal below. She’s lucky that death has deprived her of most tactile sensations.

This does not imply that they are devoid of all sensibilities, however. This trainee can surely detect the boot that Trienza pins her down with, as the Instructor literally steps on her neck.  
“Are you insulting me, recruit?!”, she exclaims.

The downed initiate instinctively plants her hands on the plate gear, hoping to get some leeway, but can hardly even struggle.  
“N-no…I was trying to get more insight into these new abilities. You are too-“

“ _Silence!_ I don’t want to hear your pathetic excuses! I should end your misery right here, before you spit on our master’s dignity with your despicable lack of effort.” Her roaring depicts a tang of indignance.

These actions are twofold in implication – it is partially a trick, or a strategy perhaps, that she has always employed as a trainer, to be harsh and unyielding. It’s simply who she is. Although, back in Quel’Thalas, she was never this brutal.  
The other section is for the sake of the looming presence of the King himself, who stands atop a terrace in the background, watching over the procedure. He expects perfection and she seeks to deliver.

As she scopes the reclined initiate below, Trienza feels an impulsive rush, a certain…taste that suffuses her. She wants to feed.  
It’s not like she hasn’t eaten, and it isn’t technically any nourishment that she craves, but a more depraved element. It’s the intrinsic desire to cause harm, to devour pain and anguish. There are so few living to inflict these actions upon along the northern continent, so they have to take what they can get. And this is an elimination process after all.

One end of her mind tries to encourage this behavior, being insidiously gleeful.  
“Yes, proceed. Consume, gorge, embrace.”

Another, the sorrow-filled song which periodically appears to haunt her, cries _“Repel, struggle, awaken. You are Sah’nir.”_

At the end of the conflict, she follows neither. She is not their puppet, a lowly beast who gives in to instinct alone. She is better than any of these vermin. Instead, she retracts her foot, grabs the elf’s hand and drags her onto her feet. Retrieving the blade, Trienza shoves it into her student’s hands and hurls a glare at her.  
“Again”, she demands. “And put your back into it. I want to feel my teeth grind.”

 _“Endless oppressor”_ , the inwardly voice laments.  


* * *

  
The seasons come and go, despite the lack of notice or concern in the north. To these detached denizens, it is ceaselessly winter, as if time stands still.  
On this day, the King has invited her, her fellow trainers and former conscripts to a central crater in Icecrown, where a humongous construct is being erected – a brand new necropolis.  
From what they can discern at a distant angle, it is close to being finished, but still has a multitude of skeletons, gargoyles, ghouls, shades and nerubians toiling across its many nooks and crannies, assembling what is incomplete.

The King strides to her side, though remains fixated on the structure.  
“I call it Acherus”, he informs her. “The Ebon Hold. Within, you and I shall forge a new generation of death knights, ones that shall erase the defection of life and seize every throne in the name of the Scourge. It is time, once and for all, to extinguish the feeble sparks of the Light. The living believe that such prospects can stem the tide which approaches, but they truly do not realize their own folly.” His unavoidable eyes draw to her and she is compelled to meet them, without prior mandate.  
“You have proven yourself, Shadespire, and the hour has arrived for you to exploit all you have gleaned from your experiences. This is the most pivotal duty that I shall ever bestow upon you. Do not fail me.”

Trienza feels conflicted in this endeavor. Part of her, the regions which declare her as nothing but an object, the unrelenting, cold-blooded epitome of the Scourge’s conquest, savors this opportunity to finally bolster her King's authority.  
But there is more, a whimper in the back of her consciousness, hiding underneath all the loathsome exterior that she has become and simply refuses to be stifled. Not entirely, at any rate, even though she can barely catch its whims anymore.

For who she is, she can only wield one and this is why she puts her hand to her chest and inclines her head in respect and veneration. He is her liege, her King, her god, even if not by choice.  
“I relish the challenge, my King. When I’m finished with them, this world will grovel before you.”

Immediately following this statement, she detects a peculiar breeze, almost a caress over her cheek. Red stirring hair nears, and a mouth murmurs a sad lullaby into her ear.  
_“If only you foresaw the betrayal at your doorstep, my heart. I weep for the ramifications on your fragmented soul.”_

As the spirit disperses into dust at long last, Trienza catches herself mournfully whispering.  
“Efaria…”

**Author's Note:**

> _Trienza was freed from the Lich King's mind control following the Battle for Light's Hope Chapel._   
>  _I'd like to conclude this by saying that, a couple of...months ago now, I think, I got a comment regarding this very character. I didn't want to spoil it back then, but this person was correct, which kinda impressed me._   
>  _I've played Trienza as my DK for a couple of years now[(here's her armory profile)](https://worldofwarcraft.com/en-us/character/blackwater-raiders/Trienza), so I always had this in the pipeline, which is why it was a little astonishing to stumble into someone who pretty much saw right through me._


End file.
